Raise Hell
by Stephane Richer
Summary: And I'll be singing like an angel until I'm six feet deep.


Raise Hell

Author's Note: WTF? This story has next to nothing to do with the song. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm posting it anyway.

Disclaimer: I own neither _Ouran High School Host Club_ by Bisco Hatori nor "Raise Hell" by Brandi Carlile.

* * *

"Mr. Hitachiin, there's a Mitsubishi Misato here to see you."

He had no idea who the fuck that was, but it didn't matter. Perhaps she had a job opportunity for him, something that had been hard to come by of late. Well, strictly speaking that wasn't the case, but all of his jobs had been of the mundane variety, unable to distract him when he needed distracting most. He sighed. "Send her in."

When he saw her, he knew. His eyes widened. Seriously, what the fuck was Kyoya's widow doing here? She never bought couture (he'd seen her closet more times than he'd like to remember). She'd never gotten along with, or even said very much to, Kyoya's friends. Ever. She had been a gracious hostess at the funeral, keeping control voer the kids and accepting condolences while appearing suitably distressed. Kaoru was surprised that he could remember that much of the funeral, as he was incredibly hungover and Hikaru had to drag him everywhere while making sure he didn't make an ass of himself. But, the question remained, what was she doing here? Did she know?

She bowed. "Forgive me, Hitachiin-san. I, that is...my late husband...I think he would have wanted you to have these."

His eyes widened further as she held out a thick briefcase to him. "Ohtori-san?"

"Please, it's Mitsubishi." She'd reverted to her maiden name? But why?

"I'm sorry, ah, Mitsubishi-san." He took the briefcase with trembling hands.

"It's an easy mistake to make; most people forget that I never changed my name."

Really? He hadn't known that. Of course, she was one of the subjects he'd avoided strongly.

She turned to leave. "Thanks," he called after her, but he wasn't sure she heard. The door slid noiselessly shut behind her.

* * *

He delayed looking at it for about a day, but curiosity and loneliness got the better of him sooner rather than later. The briefcase was heavy,but simply full of papers. They were all in good condition, even though some had to be almost a decade old. Kyoya, true to his organized heart, had printed out records of phone calls and e-mails and text messages, things that he had deleted due to paranoia and had recently been wishing he hadn't. Pages and pages and pages of words stared out at Kaoru, carefully-veiled innuendos and sweet nothings and small talk and references to a rendezvous. He sat on the floor and sobbed, cried for the first time since the night Kyoya died, with papers scattered all over his living room. He sobbed because Kyoya had cared enough to save them, because Misato had known, because she had not burned them but given them to him, because she knew and did not hate him.

The next day, he called her. She agreed to meet him at a small coffee shop near his work the following week.

Every night, he got home and reread some more. By the time the week had passed, he had read every scrap of paper.

* * *

She was already there, and he was late. He'd been kept in a meeting, and then his brother had pulled him aside afterward to see how he was doing. Reassuring Hikaru took forever, and his haste made Hikaru even more suspicious and worried. But she didn't seem to hold this against him, either, as she was sitting calmly, sipping some kind of herbal tea.

He sat down and decided to just cut to the chase. "How long have you known?"

She shrugged. "Five, six years maybe."

That long? "How did...I mean..."

Again, she shrugged. "It wasn't really that hard to figure out that he liked men. Our marriage was arranged for the sake of the companies, and we were able to coexist peacefully. We produced an heir early on, and he seemed satisfied with just one child. Everything just started to add up when I overheard phone calls. He was very careful, but over the years..." she trailed off and took another sip.

"I'm sorry." It was all he could think of to say.

"Don't be. I think you made him happy."

"But you..."

"I was running my own company and raising a child. His father was an excellent role model and a good date to events with me. There are worse hands I could have been dealt. I am the one who should be sorry."

"He had to marry someone."

"He could have waited until his father died and done whatever the hell he wanted. Marrying me did help him become heir to the company, that's true; but there are other ways he could have done it."

"But he..." You don't know, no, didn't know him like I did.

She shrugged again. The gesture was getting annoying. "He loved you, Hitachiin-san."

* * *

The meeting had watered the seeds of doubt in his mind, and he burned the papers one by one in his fireplace.

* * *

He took a lover not long after, a young, lithe model. He talked too much, but was good in bed and didn't tire easily. Kaoru hated him.

Kyoya had never loved him. Misato was wrong about that, completely wrong. He had loved Kyoya, but Kyoya lived in his dreams. He loved power. He loved the company.

How could Kyoya have loved him? He was just a masochist, loving to loathe himself, secretly longing for the goodbyes and the separations. Of course, this was how it should be, him on one side of life and Kyoya on the other. But still, Kaoru hated pain.

* * *

Again, he met her at the coffee shop, though this time it was purely by accident. They were waiting at the bar for their drinks, and upon recognizing one another both felt that they should talk. But what was there to say? They murmured pleasantries and Kaoru was very relieved when her latte was ready.

* * *

He broke up with the model a few weeks after that, setting himself adrift yet again. It felt better, though, to be alone.

In the summer, he visited Kyoya's grave. He left a bouquet of purple roses on the plain headstone. A wise choice. Perhaps Misato knew him better than he gave her credit for. After all, the two had been married for more than ten years. As he crouched in front of it, he couldn't think of anything he really had to say.

* * *

He came back every year, always alone, always with the same roses. He was forty-seven before he finally let himself say what he wanted to.

He was fifty-nine before he realized that it didn't actually matter if Kyoya had loved him or not. He was dead, long dead, belonged to no one, always belonged to no one.

He was seventy-six when he died. Mitsubishi Misato sold his sister the plot across from Kyoya's.

The summer when Kaoru would have been seventy-seven, Ohtori Keigo brought a bouquet of violet roses to his father's grave, per his mother's instructions.


End file.
